


In Which Sherlock is Going Mad

by thequeergiraffe



Series: The Spaces In-between [23]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff? Maybe?, M/M, No sheep were harmed in the writing of this fic, Pre-Slash, Sherlock in Love, Summer? In the Sherlock universe? What fuckery is this?, oblivious!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 10:13:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequeergiraffe/pseuds/thequeergiraffe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mrs. Hudson has yet to attend to our air unit, claiming that our being two months behind on the rent has made it impossible to hire a repairman (and I will not ask Mycroft, no matter how many smug texts he sends me about our "situation" and the work he could give me at "an acceptable rate of pay", the loathsome gnat) and so John has taken to wearing next to nothing and sighing longingly whenever a gust of wind rolls through the windows and pushes through the stagnant air of our flat.</p><p>I can't stand it. He's become so…distracting.<br/>-----------------------------------</p><p>(Can be read as a standalone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Which Sherlock is Going Mad

_Sherlock:_

My flatmate is driving me mad.

I suppose that's not fair, if I'm honest with myself (and I always am, even when I would prefer delusion); the heat is to blame for both John's antics and my ill temper. I loathe summer. There's something distinctly detestable about shorts; I can't even say the word- " _shorts_ "- without a sneer. Thankfully John seems to agree with on this, at least, despite his invariable shortcomings regarding fashion (and it's for the best because if I were to see him prancing about in a pair of cut-off denims I would be compelled to set them aflame, regardless of whether he was wearing them at the time or no, and I don't think John would appreciate the rescue near as much as I would) because he always wears jeans, cords, or khakis outside the flat, whatever the weather.

It's  _inside_  the flat that worries me.

Now, I'm not an overly modest man. Nudity bores me, people's reactions to nudity are always highly predictable and thus entirely uninteresting, and while I'm without any real vanity (no matter what John might imply) I recognize that my body is in reasonably decent physical condition (again, despite John's implications about my low BMI or the amount of nicotine I allow into my bloodstream). As such, I habitually strip myself of clothes whenever I find them to be bothersome. John is aware of this; if it disturbs him, he's never voiced his complaints. I prefer to shed my clothes in the sitting room, naturally, because my room is a sanctuary and I don't like to mess it up. (I make my bed as soon as I get out of it; each morning I inspect the periodic table on the wall to make sure it is level; my socks are indexed using a complex system that considers multiple variables, i.e. length, color, thickness, etc.) Besides, John does my laundry (probably; I've never concerned myself overmuch with it so it may well be Mrs. Hudson or one of Mycroft's P.A.s instead) so I'm essentially doing him a favor by leaving them on the floor in one of our shared spaces.

However: John  _is_ a modest man.

Until this summer, I had never seen John in anything skimpier than a dressing gown (and a garish one at that). It goes against his character to traipse around the house in flimsy cotton underpants. It flies in the face of all things John.

And yet, here we are. Mrs. Hudson has yet to attend to our air unit, claiming that our being two months behind on the rent has made it impossible to hire a repairman (and I will not ask Mycroft, no matter how many smug texts he sends me about our "situation" and the work he could give me at "an acceptable rate of pay", the loathsome gnat) and so John has taken to wearing next to nothing and sighing longingly whenever a gust of wind rolls through the windows and pushes through the stagnant air of our flat.

I can't stand it. He's become so… _distracting_.

I'm distracted by the gnarled skin on his shoulder, the harsh pink of the entry wound and the bright, moon-pale sunburst of disturbed flesh around it. I have wasted more minutes than I care to admit staring at that impossibly fascinating scar, wondering about its texture and whether the skin there would be more sensitive to touch or less (I expect less, but I still want to know for sure, want to watch John's face and measure his reactions as I run my fingers along it). I'm distracted by the sheen of sweat that makes his skin glisten whenever he walks through a sunbeam. I'm distracted by the trail of short, dark brown hairs that go from his navel down into his pants. The indents on each side of his tailbone; the tuft of hair under each arm; the dip of his clavicles and the faint impressions of his ribs: how can I think about anything else when he's parading this myriad of data around in front of me all day long? Inaccessible data. There I things I want to  _know_ and yet propriety demands I keep my hands to myself. I find propriety hateful, personally, and would gladly ignore it if I thought John would be anything close to amenable.

Unfortunately, touching other people (touching  _John_ ) is one of my (few) weak areas. And in this instance I feel it best  _not_ to consult an expert. (I can imagine the conversation easily: "Hullo, Sarah, do you remember John Watson? Yes, this is his flatmate, the one you once referred to as 'impossible, incorrigible, and irritating to the extreme'. Might I perhaps get your opinion on the best way to 'chat John up', to use the common turn of phrase? I'm hoping he'll submit to a few of my more…personal experimental schemes." I might be lacking in social graces but even I'm aware of the limits for acceptable conversation, and certainly this falls outside that realm.)

It's all enough to bring a man to the very edges of sanity and allow him to peek over the edge and into the darkness below. (Damn that noir crime novel and its overly metaphorical language! John bought it for me and while the plot is feeble at best- obviously the butler committed the murder while the maid was committing the theft- I enjoy the satisfaction it gives John to see me reading it. Still, the effect it is having on my language is, frankly, appalling.)

Today is no different. Here comes John now, wearing nothing but a pair of thin white undershorts and a smile. I pull my legs up onto the couch and wrap my arms around my knees, scowling at him for good measure, but he just pads past me languidly, stretching a little as he goes into the kitchen. (His back, like everything else about him lately, draws my full and immediate attention.)

"Tea?" he asks, sounding chipper (slept well last night; enjoying his day off; just finished the book he's been reading; might have had a nap…yes, no, _definitely_  had a nap). I don't answer because I know exactly what he's going to say next. "Ugh!" he groans, and I allow myself the tiniest smile. "Is that…Sherlock, what  _is_  that? I thought we discussed this: no body parts in the tea kettle."

"The phrase you used was 'human remains', John, and clearly a sheep's bladder falls outside the agreed-upon terms." I spare a glance into the kitchen. John has both his hands on his hips (I will not be distracted by his hips, the bones protruding just above those stupid little pants) and an exasperated expression on his face.

"Oh for God's sake," he mumbles, bringing his left hand up and squeezing the bridge of his nose, his eyes tightly closed. "Okay," he says, more loudly and with his jaw clenched, " _why_ is there a sheep's bladder in the tea kettle?"

I slide off the couch, tugging my sheet close around me (too hot for clothes), and slink into the kitchen, leaning on the table. "Needed to determine the exact temperature at which a sheep's bladder will explode," I say, and he jumps at my proximity, his eyes flying open as he turns towards me. "I would have used the microwave but I felt it would be too…imprecise. Aside from that I was hoping to measure the distension of the bladder at regular intervals. Thus, the tea kettle."

"Cripes," John sighs, passing a hand down his face. "Okay, so…I'm no genius, mind, but the bladder seems to be pretty intact to me. Were you planning to conduct this little experiment soon, or…?"

"Yesterday." It's true. Yesterday I had every intention of seeing this through, as it's critical to the solution of a very, very cold case that I've been casually investigating in my spare time. "But I was distracted by-" A memory fills my mind so completely that I'm consumed by it:  _the sheep's bladder landing in the kettle with an amusing squish; John's footsteps as he bounds up the stairs; the kitchen door swinging open; John; John's eyes, bright and nearly green in his excitement; the flush on John's cheeks; creases around John's eyes and mouth, the signs of genuine happiness; breathing slightly accelerated (both of us); pulse mildly elevated (both of us- but his more than mine, I think, although I wish fervently that I could put my fingers just below the point of his jaw and find out for certain); John's clinging gray tee-shirt and the smell of him, of sweat and aftershave and Mrs. Hudson's tea: I know that look, I know what he's going to say before he says it but I still feel a thrill of excitement as he pants, "Lestrade! Downstairs! Come on, we've got a case!"_

"The case," John smiles, wrong as usual. "That was fun, wasn't it? The steamboat and the counterfeit money. Never played a more interesting round of poker in my life."

"Yes," I drone, feigning boredom. I pick at my nails and drawl, "And yet your blog has suffered all morning without a new post. Worried that your desperately dull fandom may think less of you when you reveal your abominably poor poker skills?"

"You checked my blog this morning?" Sly smile; shining eyes. Point: John.

Huffing a breath, I fold my arms and sniff, "It's set as your homepage. I can hardly avoid it." John's teeth click together and his brow furrows. I've already cracked his new password. Not exactly difficult considering it was merely a variation of the last one ("sherlockyouhaveyourownlaptop"). Point: me.

John sighs, half resignation and half contentment, and rummages around before coming up with a roll of cellophane. I watch him carefully drop the bladder on to a square of the stuff before neatly wrapping it, marking it ("sheep bladder- DO NOT EAT"), and settling it on the lowest shelf of the refrigerator (which is supposedly  _my_  shelf, although I consider all the shelves to be my shelves). He's humming softly and it takes an immense amount of willpower not to smile when I recognize the tune: Beethoven's "Minuet in G". I've been playing it all morning.  _Oh, John._

The man is sending me around the colloquial twist.

 


End file.
